


terror tumblings

by More_night



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: (less and less canon compliant), (more and more sex), 80s AU, Canon Death, Drinking, Gen, Hunting, Kink Negotiation, M/M, Restraints, angsty yelling, being miserable and strongly but unspokenly in love at minus 50 degrees celcius, dark!jopson, knights kissing, missing book scene: crozier asking hickey to strip, now with a modern au where francis is a trek guide and james is an annoying tourist, post-canon with james ross, sad Francis in 1x10, sweet jopson and sad francis
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-17
Updated: 2019-07-14
Packaged: 2019-11-19 13:00:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 6,817
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18136067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/More_night/pseuds/More_night
Summary: Short things posted on tumblr about the unstoppable force of James Fitzjames's secret tragedy meeting the immovable mass of Francis Crozier's wrecked soul. Fitzier. (And occasional other things.) Most of those are canon compliant and can be read as missing scenes of a sort.





	1. james dying

**Author's Note:**

> Original posts are on my tumblr [here](https://davantagedenuit.tumblr.com/).

 

Francis Crozier remembered the moment when he had begun to think of Captain James Fitzjames as James. It was at Carnivale. James was wandering, his boots covered in the soot-infused snow turning to ice gravel as it cooled, the wild rasps of his breath turning to bursting vapors as they left his lips.  
  
"I thought it best. I did." His words faltered. "The men's morale was abysmal, Francis."  
  
Abysmal, he repeated. His eyes looked down, then, at his feet, and where he stood, ankle-deep in jellied dark ice. He said to Francis, "I can't discern blood from soot."  
  
Francis hadn't known of an answer he could give in words.  
  
He pressed James against his chest until the intractable shaking decreased to a shiver they shared.  
  
\--  
  
After examining James in the morning, at the camp where they had settled, Bridgens had signified to Crozier they should speak outside the tent. "Fifteen," Bridgens had said. "I have found fifteen open wounds on Captain Fitzjames's body, Captain."  
  
It was evening, now, even if outside it was still day. Francis Crozier stayed with James. It was difficult for James to speak, but he saved his words and breath to tell a short story.  
  
"When I was five, I contracted a dreadful fever. I was ill for days." James smiled. "I remember now how warm I felt. I thought all illnesses were warm." His lips attempted a grin.  
  
"We may be the only ones who truly know that hell is cold," Francis said, fondly, as if they shared a secret.  
  
"My cousin, Amelia, came to care for me, every evening. She would hold a cool cloth on my chest, pressing down with her hand." His lids fluttered and he gasped for breath. "It is one of my earliest and my best childhood memories. I felt held down, as if her palm anchored me into the depths." James dragged his hand to the middle of his chest and let it rest limply there.  
  
Francis slipped his glove off his hand. He warmed his palm by the lantern on the ground, relishing the near burn of the hot glass. Then he placed his hand down on James's cool, clammy skin, under the shirt.  
  
Tears welled in James's closed eyes.  
  
  



	2. hunting ptarmigan

 

The hunting party had reached the point where they could not safely go forward and be sure to return to camp before sunset. They were now bound to retrace their steps in the endless rock flatlands. They had formed a small party, only four of them, Fitzjames leading, with Mrs. Armitage, Collins and Stock.

Collins saw the ptarmigans first. Three - two adults and a fluffy fledgling. Each bird was not larger than a London pigeon, but all four men froze in a crouch, determined not to scare them away. The three seamen had pistols. Fitzjames was the best shot and he had a long musket. From his crouch, he got to his knees and elbows, the rocks digging in his skin through the flimsy wool of the coat.

He crawled so slowly he became afraid he would fall prey to the fatigue clinging to his limbs and fall asleep on the ground. After almost a half-hour of imperceptible motions, he set in place, barely forty yards from the birds nesting on the rocks. He raised his musket as carefully as he would have anything.

All thoughts left him except for the void in this god-forsaken land.

He fired.

\--

They returned to camp, triumphant. A good proportion of the seventy men still standing milled around them. Their eyes were drawn to the three dead birds. Some watched them as if they had just witnessed a miracle. Some watched them ravenously.

Goodsir instructed Mr. Diggle to save the little blood he could from the birds. He would have his most sickly patients drink it, warmed, mixed with the spirits they had left. Then to strip the flesh off the birds and roast it. Then to take the skin, the bones, beaks and legs and boil them in clean water with some of their salt pork. Then to let the bones dry and incorporate it to the flour out of which they could still make biscuits, for tomorrow.

Diggle took the birds from James's hand. He let them go, a strange glow still unfolding inside.

No Zhenjiang battle, no expedition in Indian waters, no medal pinned to his chest had ever felt to him as heroic as what he had just done.

\--

Mr. Blanky had him recount the expedition. Francis Crozier's eyes tingled with amusement. James swallowed the lump in his throat and did his best to put together a story. Words flowed from his mouth as they would have under shining lamps, were in his hand a crystal glass filled with fine wine. Before the few assembled officers and men, Collins became a courageous scout, piercing eyes scanning the wild void around them. James himself became a spy, waiting stealthily, worrying about wind, startled by the smallest noise - until suddenly, he fired, killing three birds with one bullet.

The crowd erupted in cheers, the officers taping their spoons and forks on their plates, some men whooping.

Under the stars, Diggle poured drink for the assembled men. Blanky took a ptarmigan feather, all white, the end peppered in black and pinned it to James's coat lapel with a needle as a decoration.

\--

The three ptarmigans gave each man a full bowl of broth, a mouthful of meat and a hearty biscuit as tomorrow's breakfast. James retreated to the fire. He ate his meal with a blanket thrown over his shoulders, the hue of victory leaving him emptier with each swallow of food. Francis set down beside him. "Is it heroism, James, or heroic stories that bring such color to your cheeks?"

"In truth, I don't know." He downed the rest of his gin. "And it might well be the liquor."

Francis had seen the disheartened glint in James's eyes. He took his hand to the back of James's neck. "You are a hero to them."

He shook his head. "There was less meat on these three birds than on one lame chicken, Francis."

"You are a hero to me, James," Francis said.

And as much as he tried not to, James smiled. He gripped Francis's arm as hard as he could.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A ptarmigan is this [tiny arctic bird](http://www.hww.ca/en/wildlife/birds/ptarmigan.html).


	3. one drinking captain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Set in the four months-ish chunk of time between 1x06 and 1x07 (after Carnivale; before they abandon ships) during which -- incidently -- Crozier and Fitzjames become Friends. In Simmons's retelling, Erebus does start sinking around that time (if memory serves me).

  
  
Francis found Erebus's Command office empty and dark. The lamps were out, the maps were shelved; two boxes filled with straw awaited filling. James had never formally taken quarters in the Command rooms adjacent to the office. Doubtlessly it was a bitter reminder to berth in Sir John Franklin's bed. He had instead kept his quarters as Second, in the next room. Francis found this door closed, but a soft lamp burning inside. He knocked.  
  
"James?"  
  
A moment passed. "Come in," James rasped.  
  
Francis walked in and found James sitting on his bunk, his long legs crossed at the ankles before him. On the table beside him was a bottle of gin, the half of it gone.  
  
James averted Francis's gaze.  
  
The scene felt strange to Francis Crozier. He wondered if, all those years, his drunken misery had been so transparent as James's now was. His father drank, but his inebriety was loud, heavy-footed, going from laughs to cries.  
  
"I couldn't find sleep," James said. His words were not nearly slurred as Francis's were when he had drunk his way into half a bottle. Even then, James kept up appearances, Francis thought. What else could he keep held down?  
  
Francis pulled the wooden stool from under the writing desk and sat. "I understand." He reached for the water and poured James a glass. "Drink."  
  
While James downed the glass, Francis cast a look around. He had never been in James's quarters, only glimpsed the inside once or twice. The room was as ordered and tidy as was required of any officer. But Francis had not expected the pile of books on the table and the rows of volumes on the shelves. Not naval officers' memoirs, nautical treatises or geographies, but poetry. Blake, Dante and a recent volume of Tennyson's, which seemed like it had been read several times.  
  
"Why are you here, Francis?" James said, catching his gaze.  
  
Francis ducked his head into the corridor to make sure they were alone. "We found five muskets and three shotguns stashed in an empty locker on Terror's lower deck."  
  
James placed the empty glass down and his eyes went to the bottle. "Stashed? Hidden, you mean?"  
  
Francis's eyebrows arched eloquently. "Sergeant Tozer told Lieutenant Little they must have been misplaced when some men killed rats in the armory two weeks ago."  
  
"Misplaced," James repeated flatly.  
  
"Have you seen anything like this on Erebus?"  
  
The younger Captain shook his head. "No." Scurvy had set in him early on, as soon as in their first winter. As time progressed, James's skin had paled; his uniform had grown looser around the torso and shoulders. Lately, Francis had noted blotches of blood at his hairline. Now, his eyes had a shine of fever to them. He kept them on Francis like a hook. "Francis, Erebus is sinking." Francis closed his eyes. James went on. "Men found a little under a foot of water in the hold, starboard, where the ship cants. The carpenter and his mates found a rivet, forced open by the ice. They fixed it, but pressure from the ice will not cease."  
  
"Well, both of us already knew that we wouldn't leave this place afloat."  
  
"Of course," James said. "Only I wish one week would pass without something here wanting to crush and tear us to pieces."  
  
The words reminded Francis so strongly of what he would have said, in another, previous life that he smiled.  
  
"What?"  
  
Francis tightened his lips to surround his widening grin with a serious expression. "If you are the one of our two captains who will be drinking himself into a sour temper, then you must realize I will have to be the one telling stories," he said. "And I must warn you, James. My stories are dreadfully wanting compared to yours."  
  
It took a moment, but a smile came to James's lips. It broke into a chuckle, and then into a laugh.  
  
When they had both recovered their breath, James said, suddenly serious, "There's nothing easier than telling a story, Francis."  
  
Leaning forward, Francis put his hand on James's knee. "If a story was what was needed to bring to your lips a smile like this one just now, then I would endeavour to tell the greatest and wildest story ever told."  
  
His eyes closing, James let out a soft breath. He covered Francis's hand with his own. "I'm sorry."  
  
"Don't." Their gazes met and held until, somewhere down the hall, someone called after Steward Bridgens. Francis tightened his hold on James's hand before letting it go. "Get up. You need some food in you."


	4. james's picture

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Set post-canon, or, well, during and directly after episode 1x10.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did my best for the Inuktitut words. But I am not at all knowledgeable in the matter. Please pardon any mistakes.

Ross and his interpreter leave the village later that day. They continue trekking south. Francis watches them from a distance, unworried. They have the gear the Franklin expedition was never outfitted with: fur mitts; fur boots; wood aplenty to make smaller, lighter sledges; pemmican instead of Goldner tins. The Admiralty thought Sir John Franklin and his men were leaving for a sailing voyage. Why would they not have worn their felt boots and woolen coats? The se were fit, no doubt, for a walk through London on a Winter night. They were certain death here. 

At meal time, Asiajuk finds him. He takes three pictures out of his pouch and lays them on the fur before Francis. He doesn't know what to do with them, he says. The white Man with the hair colored like fire had told Asiajuk to keep these pictures and show them to other Netsilik families and groups, should he meet any. 

Francis supposes Ross thought that this way, someone could lead them to a grave, a cairn, a camp - something. 

He shakes his head at Asiajuk. 

"Do not show the pictures to anybody. Do not speak of these men to anyone." Francis takes the first picture in the pile. It's himself, or rather, someone who died a long time ago. He begins to dismantle it, removing the glass and the wooden, gilded frame. "Give them to the children," he says. He comes to Sir John's picture and does the same. Under the glass and frame, the pictures are drawings, copies of the daguerreotypes he remembers being taken some days before they left Greenhithe. 

He comes to James's picture then. 

His heart sinks; the same way it had when he had seen James's boots on Mr. Hickey's feet. 

He thinks of James from time to time. Smiles, whispers, echoes glimpsed in dreams. But he has never missed him so acutely. 

He removes the frame and the glass still to hold the thick paper between his hands. "This one, I'll keep," he says to Asiajuk. 

Asiajuk nods at the picture. "He was your friend?" 

Francis shakes his head. "Not friend." Asiajuk has used the word ilagiit, someone in the wide circle of those Netsilik trust enough to join them in hunting during the Summer, the bond resulting being slightly more than friendship, and slightly less than close family. He says, "Piqati." Companion. The one he would have shared his meat with, had they had any. The one he would have slept with under deerskins in a snowhouse, had they had that. 

It is not quite right either. But there are no words for this in his own mind. These feelings burned through him with an intensity he had never known, and will never again know. He has left them untouched inside, where they remain tangled, like a knot in his throat. Love and pride and gratitude and joy. He does not know how to say that; he wouldn't know in English; and there wouldn't be an Englishman to understand him. So he takes James's picture and presses it to his chest, hoping it conveys something to Asiajuk. 

The Netsilik man stares at him evenly. Then he lets him be. 

In the tent where he sleeps with Nauja, her father and her child -- the family who has adopted him, to whom he thinks he is something like an orphan -- Francis looks at James's face. He looks proud and bright, an undaunted explorer of the Royal Navy; his jaw is set with confidence and courage. Yet, even then, his eyes had a haunting in them; a sadness that could easily turn into a challenge; the fear of being lost and the hope of being found. He puts the picture of James in his pouch. Along with the boat amulet Silna gave him before she left. 

They leave the next day to hunt seal. Francis places his fur pouch under his parka, where it will be kept warm against the skin. He follows Nauja. They go northwest, out on the ice. Sundogs hold the sun above their heads. Francis realizes he is crying when the tears freeze his eyelids together. He blinks the tears away and presses his fur mitt to his side, where the pouch is.


	5. jopson's mother

"Jopson?"  
  
"Yes, sir?"  
  
Francis does not know quite where to start. He has not had but a sip of spirits in the last two months and, yet, his right hand hovers on the table, searching for a glass to hold, as he hesitates. He has not and has never felt timidity speaking to crowds, or issuing orders -- but for more delicate matters like this, he still feels like he needs the impetus a drink would provide. It is like a limb never truly cut off from his body and, even now, he seeks to lean on it.  
  
"Sir?"  
  
"Your mother." Francis drops his voice, even though they are alone in the great cabin. The noise of hammers, planers and saws climbs up from the ice, where the men are readying the sledges and boats, to the windows of the room. "Many weeks ago, you told me of your mother's illness. You had not finished your story then. Would you tell me, now?"  
  
Jopson's eyes falter and find his only to leave them again. He sets down the wood case he is holding.  
  
Francis suspects there is a reason Jopson had not told him the conclusion of the story. He is more certain now, as he sees the young Steward swallow dryly, pensive. "This is not an order," Francis stresses. "If it is too difficult to tell, you do not have to speak."  
  
"Oh, it is difficult, sir," Jopson says. "I did not finish the tale then because it does not end well."  
  
Francis suspected as much. "Did she revert to her habits?"  
  
Jopson smiles, with a hint of pride. "No, sir. Never." He swallows again, tears this time. "She drowned. Jumped down from a wharf in Barking Creek, near the fish market. It was three years ago now, two months before we left."  
  
For a moment, the room stills and the carpentry noises from below on the ice are suddenly acutely loud to their ears. "I'm sorry, Thomas."  
  
His steward nods; even now, his lips turn to a polite smile. Francis would have thought they could abandon niceties, but Jopson is clothed in courtesy and dignity like he would be -- Francis sees it clearly now -- in an armor. "Thank you. I've never known how my brother fared, after her death."  
  
Even though Jopson has washed him, dressed him, served him and seen him in such a state as he could have barely stood to look at himself, Francis cannot bring himself to do what he feels he should -- embrace the younger man and hold him. Even now, it seems like the walls of this broken, crushed ship are watching them.  
  
Jopson clears his throat and frees them somewhat from the gauche silence. "She was the most fearless person I have ever known. You remind me of her. A lot. Not... Not because of your habits."  
  
Francis cannot bring himself to ask, but Jopson reads or hears the question anyhow, as he hears most of the things Francis does his best to conceal.  
  
"I don't know why she did it. But I don't think it was the pain, in the end."  
  
"What then?"  
  
"Guilt, sir. Even though she did not recall her actions or her words from that time, it was like she had an invisible strain about her, weighing her down."  
  
"I..." Francis's mouth has gone dry. "I know the sentiment."  
  
Jopson picks up the box he had put down and takes a long breath. "You're not a weight, sir. You're what keeps us all afloat."  
  
"Thank you, Jopson," Francis says.  
  
After Jopson leaves, Francis sits back against the table. He wishes he could have told Jopson how it felt to have lost Sir John Franklin, to be free from the constraints of the vision he had held for his men -- a vision which Francis knew was a fata morgana -- yet to be left alone with a burden that had not been created for him to bear. Or to tell him -- that weight of guilt nourished by dreams and garbled images -- how terribly strong is its pull, even now.


	6. The Argument in ep 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It is apparently a night for a angsty drabble of James and Francis yelling at each other. A missing scene for First Shot a Winner, Lads (1x05), ie. The Argument.

 

 

* * *

 

 

"We both know what is happening!"

"And what would that be? Please. _James_. Enlighten me!"

"You would rather surrender yourself to spirits than be in command. That's what. Because you're-..."

"Oh say it," Francis hisses.

Francis's face is a rictus of hate and pain; not the hatred and pain of this moment and place, but the ones of a lifetime, having piled over, year after year, to the point of now forming an insurmountable berg, dangerous even as it falls apart. James knows in every cracks and failures of his soul how Francis feels and thinks now; and so he knows what Francis expects and perhaps desires. _Because you're a coward_. But that is not what James meant to say.

"Because you're afraid," he says. A quick frown shows Francis's surprise. "As we all are. As I am. Nothing I could ever have done would have prepared me for this place, Francis. Nothing scares me like it. The ice. The scurvy. The creature. Sir John's death. And now you."

Francis's frown deepens. Most of the anger is washed now from his face; most of the pain remains still. But now Francis is as drink makes men: bare, stripped of all adornments, transparently breakable. "Me?" he whispers.

"You're the only one who knows even a parcel of what would need doing to get our men out of here safely. Yet you will not do anything," James says. He scoffs. He knows Francis's contempt for him; he can feel it in his jaw, the landing point of years of scorn; strange how a blow to the chin reached the heart so easily. "You won't do it for my sake. Very well. Then do it for the men."

The words reach Francis at last. That, or the drink has stifled his pain enough, finally. He sits down, his limbs stiff, like a doll. He reaches for his empty glass and eyes it for a moment. He begins to speak quietly. "If I stop now-..."

A crashing noise comes from above their heads. Legs -- paws -- thud on deck.

Shots are fired.

Men are screaming.

 

* * *

 


	7. two james (post-canon)

Upon their return, small oddities strike James the most. Food and drink, one request away. Snow that falls and melts come morning.

The most striking, however, is James Ross. A hero, in all ways, James knows. An accomplished sailor, like he shall never be. A delightful socialite, the likes of which Francis normally cannot bear.

But Sir James is different. His bond with Francis sears James.

He hides the blow, naturally. But “Frank” still rings falsely to his ears. It _is_ jealousy, no matter how carefully hidden.

When, one evening, Francis leaves Ross’s company at the Admiralty’s reception to find him, James is both pleased and surprised. Francis and he lean back and eye the crowd. It has parted around Sir James and Lady Ann, who have begun a dance, the focus of all gazes.

“It is rare for a seafaring man to find such firm footing on a dance floor,” James observes.

Francis nods. “He is many things, yes. A man of the sea _and_ of the world,” he says. “Not so long ago, I hoped I could be all these things as well. But James has something I will never have.”

James, Francis has said of Ross. The _a_ is nearly short, as it should be. As if all traces of Francis’s Irish accent had disappeared. It is entirely different from the way he pronounces James’s name. Jeames, with the _a_ twisted into an _e_.

James is elated.

He hides it with wit. “You mean that Sir James’s hair is much more charming than yours?”

Francis smiles widely. “James.” – Jeames – “Don’t be silly.” Then he leans closer. “You are the only one here with charming hair.”


	8. arctic trek au + sweater

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is a modern day arctic trek AU drabble where Francis and James switch sweaters. Inspiration credits for this go to all the posts about The Sweater from last week, and me trying to find images of Back's Fish River on youtube and finding only vids of healthy people enjoying the kayaking and saying to myself 'ok, but with more demon bear and death'.

 

* * *

 

 

Francis Crozier tries the satellite phone again. James sleeps, tightly bundled in his worn sleeping bag. His injuries are worsening. They thought initially that it was only a broken toe. But he has a fever now. It beads at his forehead.

He flicks on the phone for a fourth time. The battery is running low. But he should hear something. A raspy signal from Gjoa Haven. An Innu group out on the land. Anything. "This is Francis Crozier of Canada North Trek. Come in, Slave Lake," he says. He hopes somehow, still, that someone from Sophia's team will hear it and come and get them. But if they do not they will have to keep walking. It's been seventeen days already. He has started thinking more and more often that help isn't coming.

"Our last known position was 67º02' North by 92º21' West. We are now about 60 miles southwest of that."

The bear -- if it's a bear at all -- is pushing them inland on the Peninsula. Away from water. Away from food.

He eyes the battery. "Sophia. We...." He pauses. "We've got wounded people. We've no compass here, but the sun. We're running out of food, of water. We're lost," he says finally.

What else would he say? I was escorting this bunch of ridiculous tourists on the usual Great Fish River trek. They wanted to go all the way up to Starvation Cove. Alright, Starvation Cove, I said. Even if it's late in the summer. Even if there's probably snow up there already. And it's called Starvation Cove for a reason -- there's nothing there but rocks and lichen that won't look good on Instagram, no matter the filter. But they paid extra. Now the spite rolls tragically on his tongue.

They had been young people, from Toronto most of them, in their mid-twenties. They all called the trek differently. A new experience. Something fresh, something raw. Getting closer to, you know, whatever there is.

It was just trek to him. The peace of the land. Silence. Getting up, packing up, walking, setting down, sleeping. And again. Nothing else made him feel free like that.

Most of them had learned to leave their guide alone. Francis wouldn't pose for pictures, wouldn't chat with them around the proverbial campfire.

James Fitzjames had been the exception. He was a British citizen and, although, he'd just met most of the other tourists at a party in Toronto, he acted like he had known them since forever. He was a bit older than most of them, but compensated for that by being particularly cheerful. Every night, when they stayed up, singing songs, telling stories, as people do -- he has heard -- on these trips, and Francis left for his tent, James insisted on bidding him good night.

At first, James seemed like a tourist like they all are, coming to the Arctic like they go to yoga. Boasting about the sheer prowess of cutting himself off from social media, in these barren lands where no phone connects to anything. Francis had been irritated from the start about the kinship James apparently thought they shared. Only because Fitzjames had trekked through a desert didn't mean he knew anything about it. Certainly didn't mean Francis would trust him about anything.

That was before the bear.

The demon. The thing.

When the dozen of tourists in Francis's care in a panic, the few others thoroughly paralyzed, James's natural skills for morale had become a matter of survival. "Three years in Irak," James had said. "You don't go anywhere without your team. And it doesn't budge without you."

Francis puts the phone back down. The battery is depleting slowly. Seems as though the thing knew exactly what it was doing when it smashed through their solar chargers bag.

He looks down at James, curled on his side. Space is tight in the tent meant for one, but with most of their clothing wet or torn, they don't have a choice.

Not that Francis minds now. He has grown to like James. More than like in fact, even though he would rather take a dip naked in  Arctic ocean than admit it.

He has to go out to get them some water now, in the creek they have stopped by. He reaches carefully over James, where they have suspended their sweaters to dry. James's jumper is a costly, form-fitting, flimsy mountaineering gear thing. Pale beige, if anything. It is mostly grey now. With holes for the thumbs. Utterly useless, Francis would have said. His outer layer is standard blue ragged polar fleece. It was at least half as old as he was.

But James's jumper is surprisingly dry all over, while Francis's fleece is still wet at the colar and the hems.

"Take it, Francis," James mumbles, one eye cracked open under him. And, as if knowing Francis would still put on his fleece, simply out of spite. "You'll freeze."

Francis relents and slips in James's pale jumper. The sleeves are too long and it hugs his t-shirt in an unfamiliar way that makes him feel keenly aware of how long it has been since they could last aford to use their water to wash.

But, he must confess, it is quite warm.

 

 

 

He returns with water quickly. They can only afford to spend so much time outside.

James is slipping out of the sleeping bag. He has put on Francis's polar fleece.

Francis stops, the metal pot of water in hand. "You mind?" James asks. He rubs the hems to dry them faster.

The body of the fleece hangs around James's thinner frame, but the sleeves stop at his wrists. "No," Francis says. It comes out somewhat strangled. Seeing James in his own shirt is as if Francis had seen him naked; only in reverse. The tightness in his throat is unmistakable. It is the very same he'd felt when he had been with Sophia the first time and realized that maybe he wasn't just into guys after all.

More than like alright.

James nods at his shirt on Francis. "Suits you," he says. In the very close space of the tent, he barely has to reach out to grasp Francis's forearm. He pulls the thumb-holes over his thumbs. "Like so. It feels bloody ridiculous at first, but you're actually warmer that way."

They split the last of their instant coffee. James's fever always recedes during the day. It always returns at night. He looks better now, even if his skin is an uncanny kind of pale.

The rest of them are still asleep in the four tents that have survived the... thing's attack. The thing. They haven't seen it in one full week now. Francis thinks it must still be out there, marauding. It is nearly four in the morning. The sun is already up.

There is a comfortable kind of silence around them, despite all that's happened.

James exhales. "Would it be odd of me to ask for your number?"

Francis's first impulse is to grin. Because their phones are dead weight at this latitude. And because he spends most of his time at a latitude where phones are dead weight. But, as he looks up at James, it is obvious from the glint in his eye, that he knows that.  Francis lets the smile come. It widens.

Still. In the last days, Francis had begun to expect everything he would previously thought unthinkable, including a gigantic bear stalking them in the Arctic. But he would not have expected an overture.

He adapts quietly.

"I would give it to you," he says.

 

 

* * *

 


	9. two knights kissing in a coach

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For [blasted_heath](https://archiveofourown.org/users/blasted_heath/pseuds/blasted_heath).

 

Knighthood had seemed much better to Admiral Francis Crozier on paper. But the paper was only delivered, it turned out, after the ceremony had been performed.

Francis managed through the whole of it with a tightly-set jaw. Captain Fitzjames’s presence at his side helped to drive away remembrances of the burn of whiskey in his throat. James took the whole ordeal, of course, with dignified patience, if not downright enjoyment.

In the coach bringing them back home after, James had a distinct glint in his eye. “What?” Francis mumbled.

“I’ve never kissed a knight before.”

Francis huffed, hours worth of tense ceremonial wranglings evaporating. He drew James closer. “Neither have I."

His mouth caught hold of James’s bottom lip, once, twice. It mollified into a proper kiss.

“Are we to sir each other, you think?” James said against Francis’s cheek.

Francis grinned, but his answer was lost on the skin of James’s neck.

 


	10. hand holding (not that kind)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> M rating for this one. Kink negotiation à la Queen Victoria's times.

 

* * *

 

 

In Francis's angled berth on _Terror_ , they do all they can with speed and muffled sounds. James leans more of his weight into his grip on Francis's hands, pinned on either side of his head. Francis's hair is quite astray now. James detaches his mouth from Francis's neck and lets go of one of his hands.

"Wait."

James stills instantly, thinking Francis has heard something more alarming than the usual distant noise of the men on deck.

But Francis shakes his head. "Your... your hand."

James brings said hand down, reaching in Francis's undone breeches. "What of it?"

"Put it back the way it was."

Pulling away slightly, James stares at Francis equally. His eyes are lucid and wanting. James returns his right hand where it was, clasping it solidly over Francis's, palm to palm. "Like so?" he asks. Francis nods. He has grown significantly taut and avid under James. James then shifts the grip of his hands so that they hold Francis's wrists firmly down. "Or like so?"

Francis swallows dry. James follows the motion of it in his jaw, throat and neck.

"The latter," Francis breathes.

James nods minutely. "One word and I release you, yes?"

Francis nods, mute, flushed.

 

 

* * *

 


	11. 80s gay club au

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> James is a barman at a gay club where Francis goes to drink. Preslash. Inspiration provided by tumblr folks (@blasted_heath, @myfavoritedemons and other kittens).

 

* * *

 

 

Francis always goes to the Sky. Somehow, today, he forgot it was not the early evening. He can pretend it isn't because he's upset about Thomas. But he tries the door and it's locked. Only then does he look at his watch. It's barely past ten thirty. In the morning.

He has a bottle at home of course. He has three bottles at home--plus two spares for rainy days.

Shaking his head to himself, he gets down the steps slowly and lights a cigarette. Behind him, the lock of the door rattles.

Francis turns and finds himself staring at James. The young barman, new here since about a year. But he'll stay--everyone likes James. He's a barman who talks--a lot. Always a story about everything, every boyfriend, every client, every stupid day in his stupid life. In time, he's learned to not talk to Francis, although he always manages to look faintly hurt when Francis looks sourly at him over his whiskey.

And now James is here. Holding the door open.

"We open at 4 pm," he says.

"I know," Francis says. "I... lost track of the time."

James nods. Francis has never seen him in, well, daylight. He's thin, fit, extraordinarily good looking; puffed hair, slender limbs in an orange sweatshirt. But he looks a bit paler like this; more stern, somehow.

"Well, don't stay out there. Come in."

Francis blinks, and for a reason he does not quite understand--he wouldn't like to talk with James; he doesn't like James; and now, he's about to get in a bar before opening hours, alone with a barman of the most talkative sort--he climbs the steps back and slips in. James locks the thick, windowless door behind him and for a moment, they are in complete darkness. Francis feels James slipping closely by him in the tight entryway, brushing his side in the process.

He sits at his usual spot. Wordlessly, James brings out a glass, pours whiskey and pushes it toward Francis. Then he goes back to his work. He's washing glasses. There are also lists on the counter, for orders, Francis guesses. Lemons piled on the side about to be sliced. Tiny umbrellas in their plastic wrapping.

The bar itself is different. Nothing looks quite as desolatedly naked as a lit-up club. A place meant to be seen in darkness, through the haze of alcohol and the beams of the spotlights. All comes to view now: the floors are painted dark, but the paint is washing out; the curtains on the wall are dirty; the stage at the end of the room is a mess of electric cables, colorful tape and tie-wraps.

James, too, is different.

"You're not talking."

"You hate it when I talk."

"I don't hate it." Damn, Francis admits, when he realizes that he wants to talk. "Thomas wants to go back on a ship. Says he misses the sea. I kept telling him it's stupid to get back in the Navy now. At his age. He just wants... I don't know what he wants... Adventure, I guess."

"Thomas your boyfriend?"

"Nope. Friend friend. He and Esther have been together since... well, I can't recall it. Always have been."

"So why don't you want him to go?"

"It's bad for him. The Navy screws people up. It's what it does."

James had learned at some point, months ago, from Mandy, that they called Francis the Captain for a reason: it was an old Navy title, although he had retired now. So not just a bitter man, but a bitter ex-Navy man. "Did it screw you up?"

Something about the way James asks the questions--casual, but not poking; kind, but not superficial. It makes Francis feel like they know each other. Like he's being known, in fact. He forgot how pleasant it was. "I'm in a bar at eleven in the morning. To drink whiskey. As I do everyday."

James smiles, keeps towelling shooter glasses and setting them down in rows. "Fair enough."

Francis is done with his drink; James pours him another one before he requests it.

"I don't want him to go," Francis says.

"You told him that?"

"Course I did."

"Did you 'tell him' tell him? 'I don't want you to go. I love you. Please stay.'"

Francis snorts. "Not my boyfriend, I said."

"Who cares? He's your friend. You love him. It's what friends do isn't it?"

Francis downs his glass. "I don't have that many friends. Maybe I'm not really good at it."

James pauses his towelling. His gaze is earnest, but Francis tells himself barmen must practice this kind of thing in the mirror. "Don't say that."

Francis should have known this was not a good idea. He gets up from his seat. He's downed two generously-dosed whiskeys in under fifteen minutes. Normally, that doesn't even register. But today it does.

He goes for his wallet.

"It's on me," James says.

Francis gets two bills out of his wallet and puts them on the counter regardless.

 

 

* * *

 


	12. dark!jopson snippet

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> taking place during the party to investigate the murdered Inuit family in episode 8. i love a darkish Jopson ("i've shot smaller hawks than you" translated in my brain as "i've killed plenty of people before and i'd have done a better job than you did, you silly prat"). and i assume this moment from the book where Crozier asks Hickey to strip is effectively replaced in the series by the flogging scene. but oh well: more naked dudes in the Arctic.

 

* * *

 

 

_No bloody sense this here's making_ , Blanky is thinking. The bodies of the Eskimo family are strewn about. They have no knives in their possessions, except those discarded on the ground. They were not even on a hunt--returning from one, most likely, given the purse of seal meat Francis has showed him. The sole lesions they bear are the ones  from the pellets of the English guns. In today's chill, the blood has congealed in their parkas as soon as the wounds have opened. Barely time to spill at all.

He dips his head toward Francis's so that their whisperings remain private. "Oh Mr Hickey's the one alright."

Francis clenches his teeth as he does when his thoughts annoy him. "Most likely," he agrees. "But how?"

Thomas shares his Captain's puzzlement: "How do you scalp someone and get none of it on you?"

Francis mumbles.

"Captain," Jopson calls. The new Lieutenant is near them. His hand's easier to the shotgun than Blanky would have first believed. He loves Francis like a dog, with unfaltering loyalty and unchanging love. Blanky wouldn't have thought much of the shy steward, with his eyes cast down and his voice silken like a lady's--but he'd have been wrong.

"Yes, Jopson?"

"Mr Hickey would easily have been able to hide his misdeeds had he removed his clothes beforehand."

Jopson has said it in the polite tone of daily chatterings: _The tea would have been fresher, sir, if the packaging had not been foil_. Francis blinks at his Lieutenant, eyes Blanky. Blanky eyes him back. It is a most stunning remark, naturally, coming from Thomas Jopson, but once the mind proceeds beyond the initial astonishment, the claim appears to be grounded fairly.

"How do you figure that, Thomas?" Francis asks the dark-haired man.

"Common sense, sir. Insofar as it can apply to such nethermost acts." The Lieutenant shrugs agreeably, his tone the one still of gossipy conversation. "'Tis what I would have done."

Francis remains confounded by Jopson's remark, or perhaps by the context in which it is produced, so that Thomas Blanky must pull him aside. "He's right, Francis."

Beside them, Jopson gives a discrete nod of confidence.

Francis's lip twitch for a moment longer, then: "Bring Mr Hickey here, Lieutenant Jopson. Have him remove his layers."

"Pardon, sir?" Hickey asks when Jopson has brought him before the Captain and relayed the order to him.

"Your layers. Coat, comforter, wig, gloves. Off," Blanky rephrases.

"And down to your underthings, in fact, Mr Hickey," Jopson adds.

The young mate stands like a child at punishment, his expression astounded at having been so dared, but assured of his triumph. Unfortunately, it is at this moment supremely transparent on him that he is guilty of all they suspect. He levels Francis with the gaze of a scheming fighter, enchanted to have been so seen in his treacherous plans.

Blanky watches the remaining doubts Francis had vacate him. "All of it," Francis mutters. "Off."

Meanwhile, Lieutenant Jopson remains peacefully watchful. _'Tis not Francis by whom Mr Hickey should feel most triumphant to have been seen for what he is_ , Blanky thinks.

 

 

* * *

 


End file.
